Meanwhile the fox passed Nonesuch Farm,Keeping the spinney on his right.Hounds raced him here with all their mightAlong the short firm grass, like fire.The cowman viewed him from the byreLolloping on, six fields ahead,Then hounds, still carrying such a head,It made him stare, then Rob on Pip,Sailing the great grass like a ship,Then grand Maroon in all his glorySweeping his strides, his great chest hoaryWith foam fleck and the pale hill-marl.They strode the Leet, they flew the Snarl,They knocked the nuts at Nonesuch Mill,Raced up the spur of Gallows HillAnd viewed him there. The line he tookWas Tineton and the Pantry Brook,Going like fun and hounds like mad.Tom glanced to see what friends he hadStill within sight, before he turnedThe ridge's shoulder; he discerned,One field away, young Cothill sailingEasily up. Pete Gurney failing,Hugh Colway quartering on Sir Peter,Bill waiting on the mare to beat her,Sal Ridden skirting to the right.A horse, with stirrups flashing brightOver his head at every stride,Looked like the Major's; Tom espiedFar back, a scarlet speck of manRunning, and straddling as he ran.Charles Copse was up, Nob Manor followed,Then Bennett's big-boned black that wallowedClumsy, but with the strength of ten.Then black and brown and scarlet men,Brown horses, white and black and greyScattered a dozen fields away.The shoulder shut the scene away.
Meanwhile the fox passed Nonesuch Farm,Keeping the spinney on his right.Hounds raced him here with all their mightAlong the short firm grass, like fire.The cowman viewed him from the byreLolloping on, six fields ahead,Then hounds, still carrying such a head,It made him stare, then Rob on Pip,Sailing the great grass like a ship,Then grand Maroon in all his glorySweeping his strides, his great chest hoaryWith foam fleck and the pale hill-marl.They strode the Leet, they flew the Snarl,They knocked the nuts at Nonesuch Mill,Raced up the spur of Gallows HillAnd viewed him there. The line he tookWas Tineton and the Pantry Brook,Going like fun and hounds like mad.Tom glanced to see what friends he hadStill within sight, before he turnedThe ridge's shoulder; he discerned,One field away, young Cothill sailingEasily up. Pete Gurney failing,Hugh Colway quartering on Sir Peter,Bill waiting on the mare to beat her,Sal Ridden skirting to the right.A horse, with stirrups flashing brightOver his head at every stride,Looked like the Major's; Tom espiedFar back, a scarlet speck of manRunning, and straddling as he ran.Charles Copse was up, Nob Manor followed,Then Bennett's big-boned black that wallowedClumsy, but with the strength of ten.Then black and brown and scarlet men,Brown horses, white and black and greyScattered a dozen fields away.The shoulder shut the scene away.
Sixth colored plateCourtesy Arthur Ackermann and Son, New York
From the Gallows Hill to the Tineton CopseThere were ten ploughed fields like ten full stops,All wet red clay where a horse's footWould be swathed, feet thick, like an ash-tree root.The fox raced on, on the headlands firm,Where his swift feet scared the coupling worm,The rooks rose raving to curse him rawHe snarled a sneer at their swoop and caw.Then on, then on, down a half ploughed fieldWhere a ship-like plough drave glitter-keeled,With a bay horse near and a white horse leading,And a man saying "Zook" and the red earth bleeding.He gasped as he saw the ploughman dropThe stilts and swear at the team to stop.The ploughman ran in his red clay clogsCrying "Zick un, Towzer; zick, good dogs."A couple of wire-haired lurchers leanArose from his wallet, nosing keen;With a rushing swoop they were on his track,Putting chest to stubble to bite his back.He swerved from his line with the curs at heel,The teeth as they missed him clicked like steel,With a worrying snarl, they quartered on him,While the ploughman shouted "Zick; upon him."The lurcher dogs soon shot their bolt,And the fox raced on by the Hazel Holt,Down the dead grass tilt to the sandstone gashOf the Pantry Brook at Tineton Ash.The loitering water, flooded full,Had yeast on its lip like raddled wool,It was wrinkled over with Arab scriptOf eddies that twisted up and slipt.The stepping stones had a rush about themSo the fox plunged in and swam without them.
From the Gallows Hill to the Tineton CopseThere were ten ploughed fields like ten full stops,All wet red clay where a horse's footWould be swathed, feet thick, like an ash-tree root.The fox raced on, on the headlands firm,Where his swift feet scared the coupling worm,The rooks rose raving to curse him rawHe snarled a sneer at their swoop and caw.Then on, then on, down a half ploughed fieldWhere a ship-like plough drave glitter-keeled,With a bay horse near and a white horse leading,And a man saying "Zook" and the red earth bleeding.He gasped as he saw the ploughman dropThe stilts and swear at the team to stop.The ploughman ran in his red clay clogsCrying "Zick un, Towzer; zick, good dogs."A couple of wire-haired lurchers leanArose from his wallet, nosing keen;With a rushing swoop they were on his track,Putting chest to stubble to bite his back.He swerved from his line with the curs at heel,The teeth as they missed him clicked like steel,With a worrying snarl, they quartered on him,While the ploughman shouted "Zick; upon him."The lurcher dogs soon shot their bolt,And the fox raced on by the Hazel Holt,Down the dead grass tilt to the sandstone gashOf the Pantry Brook at Tineton Ash.The loitering water, flooded full,Had yeast on its lip like raddled wool,It was wrinkled over with Arab scriptOf eddies that twisted up and slipt.The stepping stones had a rush about themSo the fox plunged in and swam without them.
He swerved from his line with the curs at heel
He crossed to the cattle's drinking shallowFirmed up with rush and the roots of mallow,He wrung his coat from his draggled bonesAnd romped away for the Sarsen Stones.A sneaking glance with his ears flexed back,Made sure that his scent had failed the pack,For the red clay, good for corn and roses,Was cold for scent and brought hounds to noses.He slackened pace by the Tineton Tree,(A vast hollow ash-tree grown in three),He wriggled a shake and padded slow,Not sure if the hounds were on or no.A horn blew faint, then he heard the soundsOf a cantering huntsman, lifting hounds,The ploughman had raised his hat for sign,And the hounds were lifted and on his line.He heard the splash in the Pantry Brook,And a man's voice: "Thiccy's the line he took,"And a clear "Yoi doit" and a whimpering quaver,Though the lurcher dogs had dulled the savour.The fox went off while the hounds made halt,And the horses breathed and the field found fault,But the whimpering rose to a crying crashBy the hollow ruin of Tineton Ash.Then again the kettle drum horse hooves beat,And the green blades bent to the fox's feetAnd the cry rose keen not far behindOf the "Blood, blood, blood" in the fox-hounds' mind.
He crossed to the cattle's drinking shallowFirmed up with rush and the roots of mallow,He wrung his coat from his draggled bonesAnd romped away for the Sarsen Stones.
A sneaking glance with his ears flexed back,Made sure that his scent had failed the pack,For the red clay, good for corn and roses,Was cold for scent and brought hounds to noses.He slackened pace by the Tineton Tree,(A vast hollow ash-tree grown in three),He wriggled a shake and padded slow,Not sure if the hounds were on or no.
A horn blew faint, then he heard the soundsOf a cantering huntsman, lifting hounds,The ploughman had raised his hat for sign,And the hounds were lifted and on his line.He heard the splash in the Pantry Brook,And a man's voice: "Thiccy's the line he took,"And a clear "Yoi doit" and a whimpering quaver,Though the lurcher dogs had dulled the savour.
The fox went off while the hounds made halt,And the horses breathed and the field found fault,But the whimpering rose to a crying crashBy the hollow ruin of Tineton Ash.Then again the kettle drum horse hooves beat,And the green blades bent to the fox's feetAnd the cry rose keen not far behindOf the "Blood, blood, blood" in the fox-hounds' mind.
Reynard the fox
The fox was strong, he was full of running,He could run for an hour and then be cunning,But the cry behind him made him chill,They were nearer now and they meant to kill.They meant to run him until his bloodClogged on his heart as his brush with mud,Till his back bent up and his tongue hung flagging,And his belly and brush were filthed from dragging.Till he crouched stone still, dead-beat and dirty,With nothing but teeth against the thirty.And all the way to that blinding endHe would meet with men and have none his friend.Men to holloa and men to run him,With stones to stagger and yells to stun him,Men to head him, with whips to beat him,Teeth to mangle and mouths to eat him.And all the way, that wild high crying,To cold his blood with the thought of dying,The horn and the cheer, and the drum-like thunder,Of the horse hooves stamping the meadows under.He upped his brush and went with a willFor the Sarsen Stones on Wan Dyke Hill.As he ran the meadow by Tineton Church,A christening party left the porch,They stood stock still as he pounded by,They wished him luck but they thought he'd die.The toothless babe in his long white coatLooked delicate meat, the fox took note;But the sight of them grinning there, pointing finger,Made him put on steam till he went a stinger.Past Tineton Church over Tineton Waste,With the lolloping ease of a fox's haste,The fur on his chest blown dry with the air,His brush still up and his cheek-teeth bare.Over the Waste where the ganders grazed,The long swift lilt of his loping lazed,His ears cocked up as his blood ran higher,He saw his point, and his eyes took fire.The Wan Dyke Hill with its fir tree barren,Its dark of gorse and its rabbit warren.The Dyke on its heave like a tightened girth,And holes in the Dyke where a fox might earth.He had rabbitted there long months before,The earths were deep and his need was sore,The way was new, but he took a vearing,And rushed like a blown ship billow-sharing.Off Tineton Common to Tineton Dean,Where the wind-hid elders pushed with green;Through the Dean's thin cover across the lane,And up Midwinter to King of Spain.Old Joe at digging his garden grounds,Said "A fox, being hunter; where be hounds?O lord, my back, to be young again,'Stead a zellin zider in King of Spain.O hark, I hear 'em, O sweet, O sweet.Why there be redcoat in Gearge's wheat.And there be redcoat, and there they gallop.Thur go a browncoat down a wallop.Quick, Ellen, quick, come Susan, fly.Here'm hounds. I zeed the fox go by,Go by like thunder, go by like blasting,With his girt white teeth all looking ghasting.Look there come hounds. Hark, hear 'em crying.Lord, belly to stubble, ain't they flying.There's huntsmen, there. The fox come past(As I was digging) as fast as fast.He's only been gone a minute by;A girt dark dog as pert as pye."Ellen and Susan came out scatteringBrooms and dustpans till all was clattering;They saw the pack come head to footRunning like racers nearly mute;Robin and Dansey quartering near,All going gallop like startled deer.A half dozen flitting scarlets shewingIn the thin green Dean where the pines were growing.Black coats and brown coats thrusting and spurringSending the partridge coveys whirring,Then a rattle up hill and a clop up lane,It emptied the bar of the King of Spain.Tom left his cider, Dick left his bitter,Ganfer James left his pipe and spitter,Out they came from the sawdust floor,They said, "They'm going." They said "O Lor."The fox raced on, up the Barton Balks,With a crackle of kex in the nettle stalks,Over Hammond's grass to the dark green lineOf the larch-wood smelling of turpentine.Scratch Steven Larches, black to the sky,A sadness breathing with one long sigh,Grey ghosts of treen under funeral plumes,A mist of twig over soft brown glooms.As he entered the wood he heard the smacks,Chip-jar, of the fir pole feller's axe,He swerved to the left to a broad green ride,Where a boy made him rush for the further side.He swerved to the left, to the Barton Road,But there were the timberers come to load.Two timber carts and a couple of cartersWith straps round their knees instead of garters.He swerved to the right, straight down the wood,The carters watched him, the boy hallooed.He leaped from the larch wood into tillage,The cobbler's garden of Barton village.The cobbler bent at his wooden foot,Beating sprigs in a broken boot;He wore old glasses with thick horn rim,He scowled at his work for his sight was dim.His face was dingy, his lips were grey,From primming sparrowbills day by day;As he turned his boot he heard a noiseAt his garden-end and he thought, "It's boys."He saw his cat nip up on the shed,Where her back arched up till it touched her head,He saw his rabbit race round and roundIts little black box three feet from ground.His six hens cluckered and flucked to perch,"That's boys," said cobbler, "so I'll go search."He reached his stick and blinked in his wrath,When he saw a fox in his garden path.The fox swerved left and scrambled outKnocking crinked green shells from the Brussels Sprout,He scrambled out through the cobbler's paling,And up Pill's orchard to Purton's Tailing,Across the plough at the top of bent,Through the heaped manure to kill his scent,Over to Aldams, up to Cappells,Past Nursery Lot with its white-washed apples,Past Colston's Broom, past Gaunts, past Sheres,Past Foxwhelps Oasts with their hooded ears,Past Monk's Ash Clerewell, past Beggars Oak,Past the great elms blue with the Hinton smoke,Along Long Hinton to Hinton Green,Where the wind-washed steeple stood sereneWith its golden bird still sailing air,Past Banner Barton, past Chipping Bare,Past Maddings Hollow, down Dundry Dip,And up Goose Grass to the Sailing Ship.
The fox was strong, he was full of running,He could run for an hour and then be cunning,But the cry behind him made him chill,They were nearer now and they meant to kill.They meant to run him until his bloodClogged on his heart as his brush with mud,Till his back bent up and his tongue hung flagging,And his belly and brush were filthed from dragging.Till he crouched stone still, dead-beat and dirty,With nothing but teeth against the thirty.And all the way to that blinding endHe would meet with men and have none his friend.Men to holloa and men to run him,With stones to stagger and yells to stun him,Men to head him, with whips to beat him,Teeth to mangle and mouths to eat him.And all the way, that wild high crying,To cold his blood with the thought of dying,The horn and the cheer, and the drum-like thunder,Of the horse hooves stamping the meadows under.He upped his brush and went with a willFor the Sarsen Stones on Wan Dyke Hill.
As he ran the meadow by Tineton Church,A christening party left the porch,They stood stock still as he pounded by,They wished him luck but they thought he'd die.The toothless babe in his long white coatLooked delicate meat, the fox took note;But the sight of them grinning there, pointing finger,Made him put on steam till he went a stinger.
Past Tineton Church over Tineton Waste,With the lolloping ease of a fox's haste,The fur on his chest blown dry with the air,His brush still up and his cheek-teeth bare.Over the Waste where the ganders grazed,The long swift lilt of his loping lazed,His ears cocked up as his blood ran higher,He saw his point, and his eyes took fire.The Wan Dyke Hill with its fir tree barren,Its dark of gorse and its rabbit warren.The Dyke on its heave like a tightened girth,And holes in the Dyke where a fox might earth.He had rabbitted there long months before,The earths were deep and his need was sore,The way was new, but he took a vearing,And rushed like a blown ship billow-sharing.
Off Tineton Common to Tineton Dean,Where the wind-hid elders pushed with green;Through the Dean's thin cover across the lane,And up Midwinter to King of Spain.Old Joe at digging his garden grounds,Said "A fox, being hunter; where be hounds?O lord, my back, to be young again,'Stead a zellin zider in King of Spain.O hark, I hear 'em, O sweet, O sweet.Why there be redcoat in Gearge's wheat.And there be redcoat, and there they gallop.Thur go a browncoat down a wallop.Quick, Ellen, quick, come Susan, fly.Here'm hounds. I zeed the fox go by,Go by like thunder, go by like blasting,With his girt white teeth all looking ghasting.Look there come hounds. Hark, hear 'em crying.Lord, belly to stubble, ain't they flying.There's huntsmen, there. The fox come past(As I was digging) as fast as fast.He's only been gone a minute by;A girt dark dog as pert as pye."
Ellen and Susan came out scatteringBrooms and dustpans till all was clattering;They saw the pack come head to footRunning like racers nearly mute;Robin and Dansey quartering near,All going gallop like startled deer.A half dozen flitting scarlets shewingIn the thin green Dean where the pines were growing.Black coats and brown coats thrusting and spurringSending the partridge coveys whirring,Then a rattle up hill and a clop up lane,It emptied the bar of the King of Spain.
Tom left his cider, Dick left his bitter,Ganfer James left his pipe and spitter,Out they came from the sawdust floor,They said, "They'm going." They said "O Lor."
The fox raced on, up the Barton Balks,With a crackle of kex in the nettle stalks,Over Hammond's grass to the dark green lineOf the larch-wood smelling of turpentine.Scratch Steven Larches, black to the sky,A sadness breathing with one long sigh,Grey ghosts of treen under funeral plumes,A mist of twig over soft brown glooms.As he entered the wood he heard the smacks,Chip-jar, of the fir pole feller's axe,He swerved to the left to a broad green ride,Where a boy made him rush for the further side.He swerved to the left, to the Barton Road,But there were the timberers come to load.Two timber carts and a couple of cartersWith straps round their knees instead of garters.He swerved to the right, straight down the wood,The carters watched him, the boy hallooed.He leaped from the larch wood into tillage,The cobbler's garden of Barton village.
The cobbler bent at his wooden foot,Beating sprigs in a broken boot;He wore old glasses with thick horn rim,He scowled at his work for his sight was dim.His face was dingy, his lips were grey,From primming sparrowbills day by day;As he turned his boot he heard a noiseAt his garden-end and he thought, "It's boys."He saw his cat nip up on the shed,Where her back arched up till it touched her head,He saw his rabbit race round and roundIts little black box three feet from ground.His six hens cluckered and flucked to perch,"That's boys," said cobbler, "so I'll go search."He reached his stick and blinked in his wrath,When he saw a fox in his garden path.The fox swerved left and scrambled outKnocking crinked green shells from the Brussels Sprout,He scrambled out through the cobbler's paling,And up Pill's orchard to Purton's Tailing,Across the plough at the top of bent,Through the heaped manure to kill his scent,Over to Aldams, up to Cappells,Past Nursery Lot with its white-washed apples,Past Colston's Broom, past Gaunts, past Sheres,Past Foxwhelps Oasts with their hooded ears,Past Monk's Ash Clerewell, past Beggars Oak,Past the great elms blue with the Hinton smoke,Along Long Hinton to Hinton Green,Where the wind-washed steeple stood sereneWith its golden bird still sailing air,Past Banner Barton, past Chipping Bare,Past Maddings Hollow, down Dundry Dip,And up Goose Grass to the Sailing Ship.
Seventh colored plateCourtesy Arthur Ackermann and Son, New York
The three black firs of the Ship stood stillOn the bare chalk heave of the Dundry Hill,The fox looked back as he slackened pastThe scaled red-hole of the mizzen-mast.
The three black firs of the Ship stood stillOn the bare chalk heave of the Dundry Hill,The fox looked back as he slackened pastThe scaled red-hole of the mizzen-mast.
There they were coming, mute but swift,A scarlet smear in the blackthorn rift,A white horse rising, a dark horse flying,And the hungry hounds too tense for crying.Stormcock leading, his stern spear-straight,Racing as though for a piece of plate,Little speck horsemen field on field;Then Dansey viewed him and Robin squealed
There they were coming, mute but swift,A scarlet smear in the blackthorn rift,A white horse rising, a dark horse flying,And the hungry hounds too tense for crying.Stormcock leading, his stern spear-straight,Racing as though for a piece of plate,Little speck horsemen field on field;Then Dansey viewed him and Robin squealed
A white horse rising, a dark horse flying.
At the View Halloo the hounds went frantic,Back went Stormcock and up went Antic,Up went Skylark as Antic spedIt was zest to blood how they carried head.Skylark dropped as Maroon drew by,Their hackles lifted, they scored to cry.The fox knew well, that before they tore him,They should try their speed on the downs before him,There were three more miles to the Wan Dyke Hill,But his heart was high, that he beat them still.The wind of the downland charmed his bonesSo off he went for the Sarsen Stones.The moan of the three great firs in the wind,And the Ai of the foxhounds died behind,Wind-dapples followed the hill-wind's breathOn the Kill Down gorge where the Danes found death;Larks scattered up; the peewits feedingRose in a flock from the Kill Down Steeding.The hare leaped up from her form and swervedSwift left for the Starveall harebell-turved.On the wind-bare thorn some longtails prinkingCried sweet, as though wind blown glass were chinking.Behind came thudding and loud hallooOr a cry from hounds as they came to view.The pure clean air came sweet to his lungs,Till he thought foul scorn of those crying tongues,In a three mile more he would reach the havenIn the Wan Dyke croaked on by the raven,In a three mile more he would make his berthOn the hard cool floor of a Wan Dyke earth,Too deep for spade, too curved for terrier,With the pride of the race to make rest the merrier.In a three mile more he would reach his dream,So his game heart gulped and he put on steam.Like a rocket shot to a ship ashore,The lean red bolt of his body tore,Like a ripple of wind running swift on grass,Like a shadow on wheat when a cloud blows past,Like a turn at the buoy in a cutter sailing,When the bright green gleam lips white at the railing,Like the April snake whipping back to sheath,Like the gannet's hurtle on fish beneath,Like a kestrel chasing, like a sickle reaping,Like all things swooping, like all things sweeping,Like a hound for stay, like a stag for swift,With his shadow beside like spinning drift.Past the gibbet-stock all stuck with nails,Where they hanged in chains what had hung at jails,Past Ashmundshowe where Ashmund sleeps,And none but the tumbling peewit weeps,Past Curlew Calling, the gaunt grey cornerWhere the curlew comes as a summer mourner,Past Blowbury Beacon shaking his fleece,Where all winds hurry and none brings peace,Then down, on the mile-long green declineWhere the turf's like spring and the air's like wine,Where the sweeping spurs of the downland spillInto Wan Brook Valley and Wan Dyke Hill.
At the View Halloo the hounds went frantic,Back went Stormcock and up went Antic,Up went Skylark as Antic spedIt was zest to blood how they carried head.Skylark dropped as Maroon drew by,Their hackles lifted, they scored to cry.
The fox knew well, that before they tore him,They should try their speed on the downs before him,There were three more miles to the Wan Dyke Hill,But his heart was high, that he beat them still.The wind of the downland charmed his bonesSo off he went for the Sarsen Stones.
The moan of the three great firs in the wind,And the Ai of the foxhounds died behind,Wind-dapples followed the hill-wind's breathOn the Kill Down gorge where the Danes found death;Larks scattered up; the peewits feedingRose in a flock from the Kill Down Steeding.The hare leaped up from her form and swervedSwift left for the Starveall harebell-turved.On the wind-bare thorn some longtails prinkingCried sweet, as though wind blown glass were chinking.Behind came thudding and loud hallooOr a cry from hounds as they came to view.
The pure clean air came sweet to his lungs,Till he thought foul scorn of those crying tongues,In a three mile more he would reach the havenIn the Wan Dyke croaked on by the raven,In a three mile more he would make his berthOn the hard cool floor of a Wan Dyke earth,Too deep for spade, too curved for terrier,With the pride of the race to make rest the merrier.In a three mile more he would reach his dream,So his game heart gulped and he put on steam.Like a rocket shot to a ship ashore,The lean red bolt of his body tore,Like a ripple of wind running swift on grass,Like a shadow on wheat when a cloud blows past,Like a turn at the buoy in a cutter sailing,When the bright green gleam lips white at the railing,Like the April snake whipping back to sheath,Like the gannet's hurtle on fish beneath,Like a kestrel chasing, like a sickle reaping,Like all things swooping, like all things sweeping,Like a hound for stay, like a stag for swift,With his shadow beside like spinning drift.Past the gibbet-stock all stuck with nails,Where they hanged in chains what had hung at jails,Past Ashmundshowe where Ashmund sleeps,And none but the tumbling peewit weeps,Past Curlew Calling, the gaunt grey cornerWhere the curlew comes as a summer mourner,Past Blowbury Beacon shaking his fleece,Where all winds hurry and none brings peace,Then down, on the mile-long green declineWhere the turf's like spring and the air's like wine,Where the sweeping spurs of the downland spillInto Wan Brook Valley and Wan Dyke Hill.
Reynard the fox
On he went with a galloping rallyPast Maesbury Clump for Wan Brook Valley,The blood in his veins went romping high,"Get on, on, on to the earth or die."The air of the downs went purely past,Till he felt the glory of going fast,Till the terror of death, though there indeed,Was lulled for a while by his pride of speed;He was romping away from hounds and hunt,He had Wan Dyke Hill and his earth in front,In a one mile more when his point was made,He would rest in safety from dog or spade;Nose between paws he would hear the shoutOf the "gone to earth" to the hounds without,The whine of the hounds, and their cat feet gadding.Scratching the earth, and their breath pad-padding,He would hear the horn call hounds away,And rest in peace till another day.In one mile more he would lie at restSo for one mile more he would go his best.He reached the dip at the long droop's endAnd he took what speed he had still to spend.So down past Maesbury beech clump grey,That would not be green till the end of May,Past Arthur's Table, the white chalk boulder,Where pasque flowers purple the down's grey shoulder,Past Quichelm's Keeping, past Harry's ThornTo Thirty Acre all thin with corn.As he raced the corn towards Wan Dyke Brook,The pack had view of the way he took,Robin hallooed from the downland's crest,He capped them on till they did their best.The quarter mile to the Wan Brook's brinkWas raced as quick as a man can think.And here, as he ran to the huntsman's yelling,The fox first felt that the pace was telling,His body and lungs seemed all grown old,His legs less certain, his heart less bold,The hound-noise nearer, the hill slope steeper,The thud in the blood of his body deeper,His pride in his speed, his joy in the raceWere withered away, for what use was pace?He had run his best, and the hounds ran better.Then the going worsened, the earth was wetter.Then his brush drooped down till it sometimes dragged,And his fur felt sick and his chest was taggedWith taggles of mud, and his pads seemed lead,It was well for him he'd an earth ahead.Down he went to the brook and over,Out of the corn and into the clover,Over the slope that the Wan Brook drains,Past Battle Tump where they earthed the Danes,Then up the hill that the Wan Dyke ringsWhere the Sarsen Stones stand grand like kings.
On he went with a galloping rallyPast Maesbury Clump for Wan Brook Valley,The blood in his veins went romping high,"Get on, on, on to the earth or die."The air of the downs went purely past,Till he felt the glory of going fast,Till the terror of death, though there indeed,Was lulled for a while by his pride of speed;He was romping away from hounds and hunt,He had Wan Dyke Hill and his earth in front,In a one mile more when his point was made,He would rest in safety from dog or spade;Nose between paws he would hear the shoutOf the "gone to earth" to the hounds without,The whine of the hounds, and their cat feet gadding.Scratching the earth, and their breath pad-padding,He would hear the horn call hounds away,And rest in peace till another day.In one mile more he would lie at restSo for one mile more he would go his best.He reached the dip at the long droop's endAnd he took what speed he had still to spend.
So down past Maesbury beech clump grey,That would not be green till the end of May,Past Arthur's Table, the white chalk boulder,Where pasque flowers purple the down's grey shoulder,Past Quichelm's Keeping, past Harry's ThornTo Thirty Acre all thin with corn.As he raced the corn towards Wan Dyke Brook,The pack had view of the way he took,Robin hallooed from the downland's crest,He capped them on till they did their best.The quarter mile to the Wan Brook's brinkWas raced as quick as a man can think.And here, as he ran to the huntsman's yelling,The fox first felt that the pace was telling,His body and lungs seemed all grown old,His legs less certain, his heart less bold,The hound-noise nearer, the hill slope steeper,The thud in the blood of his body deeper,His pride in his speed, his joy in the raceWere withered away, for what use was pace?He had run his best, and the hounds ran better.Then the going worsened, the earth was wetter.Then his brush drooped down till it sometimes dragged,And his fur felt sick and his chest was taggedWith taggles of mud, and his pads seemed lead,It was well for him he'd an earth ahead.Down he went to the brook and over,Out of the corn and into the clover,Over the slope that the Wan Brook drains,Past Battle Tump where they earthed the Danes,Then up the hill that the Wan Dyke ringsWhere the Sarsen Stones stand grand like kings.
Then his brush drooped down till it sometimes dragged
Seven Sarsens of granite grim,As he ran them by they looked at him;As he leaped the lip of their earthen palingThe hounds were gaining and he was failing.He passed the Sarsens, he left the spur,He pressed up hill to the blasted fir,He slipped as he leaped the hedge; he slithered;"He's mine," thought Robin. "He's done; he's dithered."At the second attempt he cleared the fence,He turned half right where the gorse was dense,He was leading hounds by a furlong clear.He was past his best, but his earth was near.He ran up gorse, to the spring of the ramp,The steep green wall of the dead men's camp,He sidled up it and scampered downTo the deep green ditch of the dead men's town.Within, as he reached that soft green turf,The wind, blowing lonely, moaned like surf,Desolate ramparts rose up steep,On either side, for the ghosts to keep.He raced the trench, past the rabbit warren,Close grown with moss which the wind made barren,He passed the spring where the rushes spread,And there in the stones was his earth ahead.One last short burst upon failing feet,There life lay waiting, so sweet, so sweet,Rest in a darkness, balm for aches.The earth was stopped. It was barred with stakes.
Seven Sarsens of granite grim,As he ran them by they looked at him;As he leaped the lip of their earthen palingThe hounds were gaining and he was failing.
He passed the Sarsens, he left the spur,He pressed up hill to the blasted fir,He slipped as he leaped the hedge; he slithered;"He's mine," thought Robin. "He's done; he's dithered."At the second attempt he cleared the fence,He turned half right where the gorse was dense,He was leading hounds by a furlong clear.He was past his best, but his earth was near.He ran up gorse, to the spring of the ramp,The steep green wall of the dead men's camp,He sidled up it and scampered downTo the deep green ditch of the dead men's town.
Within, as he reached that soft green turf,The wind, blowing lonely, moaned like surf,Desolate ramparts rose up steep,On either side, for the ghosts to keep.
He raced the trench, past the rabbit warren,Close grown with moss which the wind made barren,He passed the spring where the rushes spread,And there in the stones was his earth ahead.One last short burst upon failing feet,There life lay waiting, so sweet, so sweet,Rest in a darkness, balm for aches.
The earth was stopped. It was barred with stakes.
A mask
With hounds at head so close behindHe had to run as he changed his mind.This earth, as he saw, was stopped, but stillThere was one earth more on the Wan Dyke Hill.A rabbit burrow a furlong on,He could kennel there till the hounds were gone.Though his death seemed near he did not blenchHe upped his brush and he ran the trench.He ran the trench while the wind moaned treble,Earth trickled down, there were falls of pebble.Down in the valley of that dark gashThe wind-withered grasses looked like ash.Trickles of stones and earth fell downIn that dark valley of dead men's town.A hawk arose from a fluff of feathers,From a distant fold came a bleat of wethers.He heard no noise from the hounds behindBut the hill-wind moaning like something blind.He turned the bend in the hill and thereWas his rabbit-hole with its mouth worn bare,But there with a gun tucked under his armWas young Sid Kissop of Purlpits Farm,With a white hob ferret to drive the rabbitInto a net which was set to nab it.And young Jack Cole peered over the wallAnd loosed a pup with a "Z'bite en, Saul,"The terrier pup attacked with a will,So the fox swerved right and away down hill.Down from the ramp of the Dyke he ranTo the brackeny patch where the gorse began,Into the gorse, where the hill's heave hidThe line he took from the eyes of SidHe swerved down wind and ran like a hareFor the wind-blown spinney below him there.He slipped from the Gorse to the spinney dark(There were curled grey growths on the oak tree bark)He saw no more of the terrier pup.But he heard men speak and the hounds come up.He crossed the spinney with ears intentFor the cry of hounds on the way he went,His heart was thumping, the hounds were near now,He could make no sprint at a cry and cheer now,He was past his perfect, his strength was failing,His brush sag-sagged and his legs were ailing.He felt as he skirted Dead Men's Town,That in one mile more they would have him down.
With hounds at head so close behindHe had to run as he changed his mind.This earth, as he saw, was stopped, but stillThere was one earth more on the Wan Dyke Hill.A rabbit burrow a furlong on,He could kennel there till the hounds were gone.Though his death seemed near he did not blenchHe upped his brush and he ran the trench.
He ran the trench while the wind moaned treble,Earth trickled down, there were falls of pebble.Down in the valley of that dark gashThe wind-withered grasses looked like ash.Trickles of stones and earth fell downIn that dark valley of dead men's town.A hawk arose from a fluff of feathers,From a distant fold came a bleat of wethers.He heard no noise from the hounds behindBut the hill-wind moaning like something blind.
He turned the bend in the hill and thereWas his rabbit-hole with its mouth worn bare,But there with a gun tucked under his armWas young Sid Kissop of Purlpits Farm,With a white hob ferret to drive the rabbitInto a net which was set to nab it.And young Jack Cole peered over the wallAnd loosed a pup with a "Z'bite en, Saul,"The terrier pup attacked with a will,So the fox swerved right and away down hill.
Down from the ramp of the Dyke he ranTo the brackeny patch where the gorse began,Into the gorse, where the hill's heave hidThe line he took from the eyes of SidHe swerved down wind and ran like a hareFor the wind-blown spinney below him there.
He slipped from the Gorse to the spinney dark(There were curled grey growths on the oak tree bark)He saw no more of the terrier pup.But he heard men speak and the hounds come up.
He crossed the spinney with ears intentFor the cry of hounds on the way he went,His heart was thumping, the hounds were near now,He could make no sprint at a cry and cheer now,He was past his perfect, his strength was failing,His brush sag-sagged and his legs were ailing.He felt as he skirted Dead Men's Town,That in one mile more they would have him down.
Reynard the fox's shield
They had ceased to run, they had come to check
Through the withered oak's wind-crouching topsHe saw men's scarlet above the copse,He heard men's oaths, yet he felt hounds slackenIn the frondless stalks of the brittle bracken.He felt that the unseen link which boundHis spine to the nose of the leading hound,Was snapped, that the hounds no longer knewWhich way to follow nor what to do;That the threat of the hound's teeth left his neck,They had ceased to run, they had come to check,They were quartering wide on the Wan Hill's bent.The terrier's chase had killed his scent.He heard bits chink as the horses shifted,He heard hounds cast, then he heard hounds lifted,But there came no cry from a new attack,His heart grew steady, his breath came back.He left the spinney and ran its edge,By the deep dry ditch of the blackthorn hedge,Then out of the ditch and down the meadow,Trotting at ease in the blackthorn shadowOver the track called Godsdown Road,To the great grass heave of the gods' abode,He was moving now upon land he knewUp Clench Royal and Morton Tew,The Pol Brook, Cheddesdon and East Stoke Church,High Clench St. Lawrence and Tinker's Birch,Land he had roved on night by night,For hot blood suckage or furry bite,The threat of the hounds behind was gone;He breathed deep pleasure and trotted on.While young Sid Kissop thrashed the pup,Robin on Pip came heaving up,And found his pack spread out at check."I'd like to wring your terrier's neck,"He said, "You see? He's spoiled our sport.He's killed the scent." He broke off short,And stared at hounds and at the valley.No jay or magpie gave a rallyDown in the copse, no circling rooksRose over fields; old Joyful's looksWere doubtful in the gorse, the packQuested both up and down and back.He watched each hound for each small sign.They tried, but could not hit the line,The scent was gone. The field took placeOut of the way of hounds. The paceHad tailed them out; though four remained:Sir Peter, on White Rabbit stainedRed from the brooks, Bill Ridden cheery,Hugh Colway with his mare dead weary.The Colonel with Marauder beat.They turned towards a thud of feet;Dansey, and then young Cothill came(His chestnut mare was galloped tame)."There's Copse, a field behind," he said."Those last miles put them all to bed.They're strung along the downs like flies."Copse and Nob Manor topped the rise."Thank God, a check," they said, "at last."
Through the withered oak's wind-crouching topsHe saw men's scarlet above the copse,He heard men's oaths, yet he felt hounds slackenIn the frondless stalks of the brittle bracken.
He felt that the unseen link which boundHis spine to the nose of the leading hound,Was snapped, that the hounds no longer knewWhich way to follow nor what to do;That the threat of the hound's teeth left his neck,They had ceased to run, they had come to check,They were quartering wide on the Wan Hill's bent.
The terrier's chase had killed his scent.
He heard bits chink as the horses shifted,He heard hounds cast, then he heard hounds lifted,But there came no cry from a new attack,His heart grew steady, his breath came back.
He left the spinney and ran its edge,By the deep dry ditch of the blackthorn hedge,Then out of the ditch and down the meadow,Trotting at ease in the blackthorn shadowOver the track called Godsdown Road,To the great grass heave of the gods' abode,He was moving now upon land he knewUp Clench Royal and Morton Tew,The Pol Brook, Cheddesdon and East Stoke Church,High Clench St. Lawrence and Tinker's Birch,Land he had roved on night by night,For hot blood suckage or furry bite,The threat of the hounds behind was gone;He breathed deep pleasure and trotted on.While young Sid Kissop thrashed the pup,Robin on Pip came heaving up,And found his pack spread out at check."I'd like to wring your terrier's neck,"He said, "You see? He's spoiled our sport.He's killed the scent." He broke off short,And stared at hounds and at the valley.No jay or magpie gave a rallyDown in the copse, no circling rooksRose over fields; old Joyful's looksWere doubtful in the gorse, the packQuested both up and down and back.He watched each hound for each small sign.They tried, but could not hit the line,The scent was gone. The field took placeOut of the way of hounds. The paceHad tailed them out; though four remained:
Sir Peter, on White Rabbit stainedRed from the brooks, Bill Ridden cheery,Hugh Colway with his mare dead weary.The Colonel with Marauder beat.They turned towards a thud of feet;Dansey, and then young Cothill came(His chestnut mare was galloped tame)."There's Copse, a field behind," he said."Those last miles put them all to bed.They're strung along the downs like flies."Copse and Nob Manor topped the rise."Thank God, a check," they said, "at last."
"Thank God, a check," they said, "at last.""They cannot own it; you must cast."
"They cannot own it; you must cast,"Sir Peter said. The soft horn blew,Tom turned the hounds up wind; they drewUp wind, down hill, by spinney side.They tried the brambled ditch; they triedThe swamp, all choked with bright green grassAnd clumps of rush and pools like glass,Long since, the dead men's drinking pond.They tried the White Leaved Oak beyond,But no hound spoke to it or feathered.The horse heads drooped like horses tethered,The men mopped brows. "An hour's hard run.Ten miles," they said, "we must have done.It's all of six from Colston's Gorses."The lucky got their second horses.The time ticked by. "He's lost," they muttered.A pheasant rose. A rabbit scuttered.Men mopped their scarlet cheeks and drank.They drew down wind along the bank,(The Wan Way) on the hill's south spur,Grown with dwarf oak and juniperLike dwarves alive, but no hound spoke.The seepings made the ground one soak.They turned the spur; the hounds were beat.Then Robin shifted in his seatWatching for signs, but no signs shewed."I'll lift across the Godsdown Road,Beyond the spinney," Robin said.Tom turned them; Robin went ahead.Beyond the copse a great grass fallowStretched towards Stoke and Cheddesdon Mallow,A rolling grass where hounds grew keen."Yoi doit, then; this is where he's been,"Said Robin, eager at their joy."Yooi, Joyful, lad, yooi, Cornerboy.They're on to him."
"They cannot own it; you must cast,"Sir Peter said. The soft horn blew,Tom turned the hounds up wind; they drewUp wind, down hill, by spinney side.They tried the brambled ditch; they triedThe swamp, all choked with bright green grassAnd clumps of rush and pools like glass,Long since, the dead men's drinking pond.They tried the White Leaved Oak beyond,But no hound spoke to it or feathered.The horse heads drooped like horses tethered,The men mopped brows. "An hour's hard run.Ten miles," they said, "we must have done.It's all of six from Colston's Gorses."The lucky got their second horses.
The time ticked by. "He's lost," they muttered.A pheasant rose. A rabbit scuttered.Men mopped their scarlet cheeks and drank.They drew down wind along the bank,(The Wan Way) on the hill's south spur,Grown with dwarf oak and juniperLike dwarves alive, but no hound spoke.The seepings made the ground one soak.They turned the spur; the hounds were beat.Then Robin shifted in his seatWatching for signs, but no signs shewed."I'll lift across the Godsdown Road,Beyond the spinney," Robin said.Tom turned them; Robin went ahead.
Beyond the copse a great grass fallowStretched towards Stoke and Cheddesdon Mallow,A rolling grass where hounds grew keen."Yoi doit, then; this is where he's been,"Said Robin, eager at their joy."Yooi, Joyful, lad, yooi, Cornerboy.They're on to him."
Reynard the fox
At his remindersThe keen hounds hurried to the finders.The finding hounds began to hurry,Men jammed their hats prepared to skurry,The Ai Ai of the cry began.Its spirit passed to horse and man,The skirting hounds romped to the cry.Hound after hound cried Ai Ai Ai,Till all were crying, running, closing,Their heads well up and no heads nosing,Joyful ahead with spear-straight stern.They raced the great slope to the burn.Robin beside them, Tom behind,Pointing past Robin down the wind.For there, two furlongs on, he viewedOn Holy Hill or Cheddesdon RoodJust where the ploughland joined the grass,A speck down the first furrow pass,A speck the colour of the plough."Yonder he goes. We'll have him now,"He cried. The speck passed slowly on,It reached the ditch, paused, and was gone.Then down the slope and up the Rood,Went the hunt's gallop. Godsdown WoodDropped its last oak-leaves at the rally.Over the Rood to High Clench ValleyThe gallop led; the red-coats scattered,The fragments of the hunt were tatteredOver five fields, ev'n since the check.
At his remindersThe keen hounds hurried to the finders.The finding hounds began to hurry,Men jammed their hats prepared to skurry,The Ai Ai of the cry began.Its spirit passed to horse and man,The skirting hounds romped to the cry.Hound after hound cried Ai Ai Ai,Till all were crying, running, closing,Their heads well up and no heads nosing,Joyful ahead with spear-straight stern.They raced the great slope to the burn.Robin beside them, Tom behind,Pointing past Robin down the wind.
For there, two furlongs on, he viewedOn Holy Hill or Cheddesdon RoodJust where the ploughland joined the grass,A speck down the first furrow pass,A speck the colour of the plough."Yonder he goes. We'll have him now,"He cried. The speck passed slowly on,It reached the ditch, paused, and was gone.
Then down the slope and up the Rood,Went the hunt's gallop. Godsdown WoodDropped its last oak-leaves at the rally.Over the Rood to High Clench ValleyThe gallop led; the red-coats scattered,The fragments of the hunt were tatteredOver five fields, ev'n since the check.
Then down the slope and up the Rood,Went the hunt's gallop.
"A dead fox or a broken neck,"Said Robin Dawe, "Come up, the Dane."The hunter leant against the rein,Cocking his ears, he loved to seeThe hounds at cry. The hounds and heThe chiefs in all that feast of pace.The speck in front began to race.The fox heard hounds get on to his line,And again the terror went down his spine,Again the back of his neck felt cold,From the sense of the hound's teeth taking hold.But his legs were rested, his heart was good,He had breath to gallop to Mourne End Wood,It was four miles more, but an earth at end,So he put on pace down the Rood Hill Bend.
"A dead fox or a broken neck,"Said Robin Dawe, "Come up, the Dane."The hunter leant against the rein,Cocking his ears, he loved to seeThe hounds at cry. The hounds and heThe chiefs in all that feast of pace.
The speck in front began to race.The fox heard hounds get on to his line,And again the terror went down his spine,Again the back of his neck felt cold,From the sense of the hound's teeth taking hold.But his legs were rested, his heart was good,He had breath to gallop to Mourne End Wood,It was four miles more, but an earth at end,So he put on pace down the Rood Hill Bend.